


A Blaze Of Glory

by Glasswing



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Gen, Graphic Description, I'm so sorry, Inspired by Junkrat's low-health sounds, Mercy Killing, My First AO3 Post, please find some fluff after this you'll need it, this actually hurt to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7920232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glasswing/pseuds/Glasswing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was going to happen at some time, he had told himself. It was inevitable.</p>
<p>He just never wanted it to be like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blaze Of Glory

He'd seen death before. Caused it, even. It did not phase him.

But this was different.

Here, in one huge hand, was the rat, the boss-

-the _kid_.

Jamison Fawkes was limp in his arms. 

He was giving shaky, shallow breaths. His eyes were misted, and painful, and sightless. What had once been a strong, defiant gold was gone, and in its place stood a mocking reflection - the sun shining bright, on a backdrop of blue.

The world did not cry at his pain. 

It never had.

A weak and feeble cough broke him from his thoughts, and he looked back. Crimson, familiar crimson, greeted him, pooling at Jamison's core, painted in all directions like on an artist's canvas. Shards of bone were indistinguishable from shrapnel. They were coated, stained in blood, piercing muscle and sinew and veins.

He had been opened up before his eyes.

It would have been exhilarating, if it hadn't been him.

“Jamison.”

That sturdy, grounded tone had never failed to awaken the boy before. It was somewhere between a warning and an affirmation, a tone like _I'm here, but quit messing around_.

How he wished he was.

Something stirred in the man in his arms, but it wasn't hope. A whimper of agony confirmed that. What instead came was the grip of his tiny hand against Hog's, a silent cry for strength, for relief, for anything to stop the pain.

The Hogdrogen was long since gone. They wouldn't find help.

Not here. Not now.

Roadhog sat as gently as he could, keeping the smaller man's body propped up in his arms. He shifted a little more when he realised Rat couldn't raise his head. _Poor kid_. With his other, hefty hand, he pushed the pack from skeletal shoulders, letting it fall into the dust. _It couldn't be comfortable laying on it._

Another cough shook Jamie's body, accompanied by a low whine of pain. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, and scarlet foam was forming beneath his lungs. There wasn't much time left. Those breaths were still there, ragged and pitiful, but they were slowing.

The loud _nuisance_ , the headstrong _idiot_ , the over-confident _screwball_ was giving up.

He was dying.

His _friend_ was _dying_.

With a pang of guilt he realised that this time, the Rat had not screwed up. He had not misfired, or aimed wrong, or blown up something he shouldn't. He had caught a grenade meant for him.

Out of a belated respect for the man, he pulled off his mask.

Mako Rutledge had seen death before. Caused it, even. It did not phase him.

But this was different.

The final, feeble squeeze of a hand was what made him decide.

He brought up his own hand to Jamison's face. It was almost pristine, unmarred by wounds, only the soot across his brow making him _him_. He brushed away the trickle of blood from his chin with one great thumb.

He placed his palm on Junkrat's mouth, thumb resting on one cheek, fingers on the other. He held closed his nose, and felt no struggle.

He pressed down.

The minutes passed slowly, agonisingly slowly, and began to feel like years.

_“Roadie, ya gotta' swear to me that if I'm gonna' kick the bucket, it ain't gonna be from somethin' stupid. I wanna' die from someone else's hand, y'know? Nice an' quick, but in a blaze o' glory. Yeah. Go down fightin'.”_

_“...”_

At last, he lay still.

Against all of Roadhog's old wishes, it didn't suit him at all.

“A blaze of glory.”

He nodded, slowly, and stood.

It didn't take long to find Jamison's favourite explosives. They were, of course, the most powerful ones he had, made for demolishing, not just damage. _For special occasions_ , he had said. This counted.

It didn't take long to travel to the nearest city, and plant them. One for each big building in the square. If there's one thing he had learned from the kid, it was the weaknesses of buildings.

It didn't take long to take his limp and lifeless body, cradled in his arms, up to the tallest tower, and adorn it with a mixture of flowers and bombs. A grenade, here and there, as well. 

He would have laughed at the irony, had he been alive to see it.

Roadhog stood back, and looked at his work.

Jamison Fawkes was not pretty, or elegant, or dignified in death. He never had been. He was coated in soot, and blood, and wounds, as if the battle wasn't over. He lay with the ends of his hair charred, not alight as it once had been, and it only served to affirm that the life he'd had was gone. 

His empty, golden eyes were open, and would not shut. They stared, soulless, at a sky that had hated him. 

But Jamison Fawkes would be, in death, as much a cause for chaos as he had been in life.

Roadhog would make sure of that.

And as he swung one great leg over his bike – the sidecar was painfully silent – he looked out to the city he had left. Held the tiny detonator in his hand. The last remnant of a friend.

“Goodbye.”

_A blaze of glory._


End file.
